


no more words now

by dustbottle



Series: Andreil: Into The Future [4]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew Minyard Has Feelings, Canon Compliant, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Post-Canon, Smut, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: Andrew and Neil are starting players for the Boston Rebels. When the play-off match against their main rivals the New York Stags rolls around, Andrew shuts down the goal.This is what happens on the court - and what happens after.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Andreil: Into The Future [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/749475
Comments: 34
Kudos: 442





	no more words now

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on the poem _“How Do I Love You?"_ by Mary Oliver:  
>   
>  _How do I love you?_  
>  _Oh, this way and that way._  
>  _Oh, happily. Perhaps_  
>  _I may elaborate by_  
>   
>  _demonstration? Like_  
>  _this, and_  
>  _like this and_  
>   
>  _no more words now_
> 
> This is a sequel to [missing you (is all i am)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12742830), [Minyard-Josten: A Rivalry For The Ages](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11214843) and [Blossom Under Kindness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11438940). It can be read separately, but I would recommend reading the other parts first.
> 
> Trigger warnings: references to scars and past injuries, scar worship, non-explicit references to past abuse, non-explicit descriptions of mental health issues

It’s been a long year, a long season, and it’s not close to over yet. Andrew feels tired at the thought, but he has chosen this life, is still choosing this life, and so he bears it with familiar weariness dogging his steps.

They’re playing the New York Stags in the first round of play-offs, and it’s clearly a disaster waiting to happen from the start. Even Andrew, generally uninterested in their opponents or the racket the press makes about them, knows the New York team sucks; what’s more, they seem to have it out for the Rebels in particular. The press has been frothing at the mouth since the draw announcement, endlessly indulging their lofty delusions about vengeance and rivalry and honour.

Of course, the truth is both uglier and more mundane; no one knows or particularly cares how it started, but the history between both teams is tainted by a long series of nasty comments, unnecessary fouls, semi-accidental injuries, and general unpleasantness. The last match ended with a Stags player getting herself suspended for trying to injure Neil, repeatedly aiming for unprotected body parts even when the ball was nowhere near. Through it all, Neil had kept an impressively blank face, the cracks in his façade invisible to the unpractised eye. Andrew wasn’t unpractised, though, and the only reason the backliner walked away with her kneecaps intact is that he had been at home, injured himself.

All this to explain why Andrew finds himself marginally invested in beating the opposing team today; he would feel annoyed at that, if he allowed himself to feel anything about Exy at all. He knows everything about the starting line-up and about the subs, just like he always does; if he knows more about the Stag backliners than strictly necessary for his position in goal, he has nothing to say about that.

It’s a home game for the Rebels, but New York is close enough to Boston that the away stands are packed. The atmosphere in the stadium is palpably tense from the moment they march in; it doesn’t get better from there. Neil is vibrating with tension a few spots down the line, practically crackling with pent-up energy as the stands erupt into waves of meaningless noise; Andrew just squares his shoulders and makes it to the goal without acknowledging the crowd.

The game starts, and both teams take off flying. The backliner who tried to injure Neil isn’t playing, but her sub is, and he’s a nasty piece of work; when Neil scores his first goal, his mark shoulder checks him hard enough to drive him straight into the wall, and Andrew grits his teeth and tries to relax his white-knuckled grip. Neil gets back up and right into his mark’s face immediately, the lines of his body rigid with furious challenge; Andrew silently acknowledges his relief even while he rolls his eyes.

At half-time, the score is 3-0, and the Stags are mean and getting meaner. Andrew takes a grim kind of pleasure in denying them any chance at a goal, paying more attention than usual to the intricacies of the game. Defence is doing a tolerable job keeping the Stag strikers away from the goal; whenever they do make it through, Andrew is there to block them out. He returns every ball straight into his strikers’ nets or at the ankles of his opponents, garnering him an official warning but no card, as well as a low hum of petty satisfaction along his too-tight skin.

Time is ticking down fast. Neil and the other Rebel striker score a couple more times, and the Stags are getting desperate; it is dumb luck that one of their last-ditch challenges gets them a penalty shot. The game is put on hold as the Stags pick their penalty taker, and Andrew watches the preparations unfold from behind the grate of his helmet, vaguely displeased with the nervous flutter crawling up his throat. He may not care as much as the rest of his team, but any goalkeeper knows penalties are the worst; even if Andrew is better than most, he still misses more than he blocks.

Andrew looks away from the Stag players clustering in front of the goal to catch sight of Neil, hair wild and helmet all but forgotten at his feet; when Neil meets his eyes and gives him the lazy two-fingered salute that is their earliest inside joke, familiarity sings riotous through Andrew’s veins, cutting through the tension like a knife.

The referee blows her whistle and points to the penalty spot, and most players file off the court. Andrew gets into position, adjusting and readjusting his grip on his racket as he faces the Stag striker who has been chosen to take the shot. The crowd is almost silent around them, breathless and intent. The whistle blows again; the striker scoops up the ball and takes a running start, then stops and shoots, feigning right before aiming hard left, throwing his weight behind the shot.

The ball curls into the top left corner just like it always does, impossibly fast and out of reach, except that Andrew strains up and blocks it anyway, and the crowd erupts into noise.

Andrew drops his racket, unclenching his fists and ignoring the frustrated protests of the other team to look for Neil instead. When he finds him, Neil is already looking back, his gaze steady and ruthlessly clear, his eyes glittering with unrestrained emotion. Andrew takes a breath, then another, acutely aware of his pulse clamouring in his ears, then makes himself look away.

The game resumes, and the final minutes are heated but uneventful; the final buzzer sounds on a 7-0 score, Rebels’ favour. With nothing to focus on but the deafening roar of the crowd numbing his senses and clouding his thoughts, Andrew can barely concentrate enough to catch his breath. He needs to be somewhere else right now, anywhere else, no longer interested in punishing himself for the dysfunction of his own battered mind. Neil catches his eye from across the court and grins, knowing and known; when Andrew jerks his head in the direction of the exit, Neil nods and watches him go.

*

Andrew feels better as soon as he enters the cool quiet of the catacombs and starts making his way to the locker rooms. He doesn’t expect Neil to follow him, but he does, stepping close but carefully holding himself back from touching, and Andrew feels his stomach swoop with familiar anticipation.

“You did it,” Neil says, “you sent them home _crying,_ Andrew, _fuck_ –” and he’s laughing, low and breathless and fizzy with adrenalin, and it should be reason to stop him, would have been, once, but Andrew doesn’t want to stop this time. He wants to lean into the exuberance of Neil on a contact high from a brutal game, incandescent with triumph and sweat, and so he allows himself the indulgence.

“Yes or no?” he asks, and watches the way Neil sways into him, losing the subtle tension he carries in his shoulders. Andrew can’t stop himself from doing a quick check to see whether Neil is hiding any injuries, finding himself satisfied; wise to his game, Neil rolls his eyes and then smiles, the fierce lines of his face creasing into something soft and utterly fond.

“Yes, Andrew,” Neil breathes, and comes easily when Andrew reaches out to pull him in. Stepping as close as he can with both of them still wearing most of their uniforms, Andrew cups Neil’s striking face in both hands. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, half a tease, half not; Neil swallows thickly, and Andrew watches the slow bob of his Adam’s apple and wants to put his mouth there, lets the moment stretch instead.

Neil’s eyes are clear and dark as they rake over Andrew’s face, coming to rest on his mouth again and again, helplessly intent. Andrew leans even closer, sliding one hand to the back of Neil’s neck, the other to his lower back, feeling the lean muscle there through the fabric of his uniform. He brushes his thumb up along the sharp corner of Neil’s jaw, watches his eyes flutter shut as he finally closes the distance.

The first kiss is soft, sweet, almost hesitant in a way that makes Andrew’s entire chest feel warm. Neil keeps himself still until Andrew reaches up to tap two fingers against his wrist in wordless request, and Neil’s hands come up to tangle in his hair. Andrew licks into Neil’s welcoming mouth with need burning steadily under his overheated skin, and Neil sucks in a rough breath and lets him, pliant in this like he is in nothing else. Time is starting to drift, curling in at the edges, but it doesn’t unsettle Andrew like it would have before; he is here, and Neil is here, and he trusts Neil to hold them together if he can’t.

Andrew drags Neil’s full bottom lip between his teeth, drops a line of lingering kisses from the corner of his mouth to the hard hinge of his jaw; Neil sighs into it, breath hitching beautifully in his chest, and Andrew feels the last of his tension drain away. He draws back to look at Neil in the stark overhead lights, his blighted skin pale and dear, his dusting of freckles a dark pattern across his cheeks, and feels, and feels, and _feels_.

Neil makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and Andrew’s whole body floods with hunger and heat; he has to kiss him again as he starts walking Neil backward, keeps kissing him until his back hits the locker room wall, steals the breath straight from his gasping lungs.

Bracing a hand against the wall beside Neil’s head, Andrew pulls back to brush a fleeting kiss across his strong brow, his scarred cheek, his luscious mouth; Neil’s smile turns devastating and shaky with want, more undone by softness than by anything else, and Andrew is endlessly greedy for everything Neil will let him have.

It’s still heady to be the focus of Neil’s full attention, to see his general indifference about sex melt away in the face of his desire, and Andrew lets himself get a little lost in it. His fingers curl into the material of Neil’s jersey, pushing it up to get to the hot skin beneath; he keeps his touch carefully light, feathers and air, feels Neil shiver and shiver with need. Andrew leans in to lick the salty skin of his neck, pushes Neil back against the wall as he tastes his racing pulse, revels in his breathy groan.

“I need– can I touch you?” Neil is hoarse, out of breath and half desperate, and at Andrew’s nod he dips down to kiss his neck, nosing along his skin in a delicate, electrifying tease; Andrew shudders with it in spite of himself, and feels the sharp edges of Neil’s smile.

Arousal hums low and sure in Andrew’s veins; he’s half hard and knows Neil is getting there too, each hitching breath a tiny victory. When he leans in again, Neil whimpers into his mouth like he’s choking on it, always predictably easy for him. A fine quiver runs across his body as his hand fists into the back of Andrew’s undershirt, blindly grasping for something to hold onto; Andrew grabs Neil’s searching hand and interlaces their fingers, grounding him like he has for years, drunk on the way Neil settles at his touch.

Time continues to whirl around them as Andrew coaxes Neil into deepening the kiss, breaking away intermittently to kiss along his neck or run his tongue across the sensitive skin on the underside of his jaw, quietly relishing the way Neil chases after his mouth. Neil kisses him back like his life depends on it, single-minded and ferocious, and Andrew has fought to trust every part of him, and does, and does, and does.

A sudden noise nearby shatters the illusion of privacy, and it’s like emerging from the sweltering eye of a storm to find a ravaged world. Andrew steps back to let Neil move away from the wall, suddenly all too aware of the ambient stadium sounds filtering in from the hall. His skin prickles with discomfort at having lost track of his surroundings, but for once, limbs loose with exertion and familiarity, he can acknowledge it and let it go. Neil looks back at him and smiles, still breathing hard and in no rush to move, and Andrew meets his quiet, knowing gaze and never wants to look anywhere else.

“I can’t believe you stopped that penalty,” Neil says, unrepentantly dishevelled with his flushed face and tousled hair, eyes dancing with mirth and something more; Andrew scoffs without even the pretence of heat, doesn’t acknowledge the slow warmth unfurling in his gut. Instead, he reaches out to trail a gentle hand down Neil’s battered cheek, and watches Neil turn his face into the touch.

Neil sighs and brings his hand up to hold on to Andrew’s sleeve. “I have press duty,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically reluctant about the chance to antagonize a room full of reporters, like he hasn’t delighted in it since the start of his career. He still doesn’t seem inclined to withdraw, looking content and perfectly at ease, but when the noise in the hallway surges with the arrival of the rest of the team, Andrew finally tears himself away.

“I’ll see you at home,” he says, keeping his voice low and even, and Neil’s entire face softens with feeling as he nods. They leave the locker room together before their teammates barge in; Neil silently extends a hand, and Andrew brushes light fingers across his wrist before they go their separate ways. He drives home with the music loud enough to drown out his tired mind, something like satisfaction curling warm under his skin.

*

Neil gets home forty minutes later; Andrew hears him tripping over cat toys in the dark hallway on his way in, and allows it to settle him the way nothing else has. He puts aside his phone, ignoring the way Nicky is still blowing it up with his exhaustingly colourful outpouring of support, and looks up to watch Neil stumble into the living room. He looks calm, his eyes quiet and dark, his still-damp hair curling over his forehead; he looks beautiful, and Andrew knows him better than he knows himself.

“You okay?” Neil asks, searching his face with careful eyes, and Andrew, still warm and mellowed from the shower, yearns for him with everything he has. He can’t put into words what it means to him that Neil, a mobster’s son with fire for blood, takes risks in everything but this, everything but _them_ ; Andrew may be damaged and weary and riddled with hurt, may never escape the clutches of his ruined mind, but he knows Neil will never take what he isn’t willing to give, and that is enough.

“I want you,” he says, blunt and true, because he does; from the way Neil’s shoulders drop as he nods, he understands it for the answer it is. When Andrew dips his head, Neil moves closer like he always does, dropping down next to him on the living room couch with a heavy sigh; he tilts his head to the side to meet Andrew’s gaze, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That shutout was incredible, Andrew,” Neil says, voice low and pleased, all his sharp edges blurred by affection; when Andrew rolls his eyes but simultaneously catches hold of his sleeve to tug him close, Neil stops fighting his grin. He leans in to jostle Andrew’s shoulder, his entire face lit up with good-natured teasing, his weight a reassuring truth; he smells like their laundry detergent and the same cheap shower gel he’s used for years, and Andrew feels warm all the way to his toes, and safe, and safe, and safe.

“Those idiots wouldn’t manage to score if I was backwards in goal,” Andrew scoffs, indulging Neil’s Exy talk for the way it makes his face soften with delicate joy. Neil nods, mock-serious, humouring him even while he leans in closer, closer, his eyes darkening with intent and dropping to his mouth, then back up, feverish and half undone. The sight hits Andrew like a punch to the gut, stealing his patience and his breath. “Neil. Yes or no?” he asks, a secret in the diminishing space between their breaths, and Neil’s smile turns smug for a beat before he nods and lets himself be drawn in.

The first kiss is endless and rich with heat, a storm contained, a microcosmos of perfect need. Neil makes a broken sound into his mouth, and Andrew lifts a trembling hand to his cheek and deepens the kiss; he wants to crawl inside Neil’s skin sometimes, make a home for himself behind his cherished ribs, yearning and hungry and holding tight to life. He settles for kissing him again, then again, holding him close and true, and Neil gasps and gasps and yields to his touch.

Andrew dips down to lave an open-mouthed kiss across Neil’s pounding pulse, lingering where his scent is strongest; he scrapes his teeth along Neil’s jaw on his way back to his lips, quietly gratified when Neil shivers under his touch. Neil grabs the hand still cupping his cheek and turns his head to drop a kiss to Andrew’s palm, achingly sweet; Andrew feels his stomach swoop and swallows hard, throat working around a complicated tangle of arousal and fondness and knee-jerk fear. Neil is so careful with him, all graceful honesty, all gentle hands and watchful eyes; the breathtaking tenderness of it breaks him wide open, flaying him alive. Andrew fights down a shiver as he sighs into another sweeping kiss, lets it burn him from the inside out.

Andrew knows he grew up alone in the dark, scared and neglected and brutalized, building useless lines of defence against overwhelming violation. He knows he will never be completely free from what his life has shackled him to; vulnerability will never come easy to him, and his victories will go unnoticed by people with less cruel lives. But he also knows that he wants to keep living. He wants to be here, with Neil, who fights his own demons and wins most of the time, in the home they share together; he wants to trust Neil with himself, and to be trusted in return. Andrew touches Neil with hands that don’t want to let him go, and acknowledges the defiant certainty blooming in his withered heart.

They’re slow to part, lingering close; Neil looks rumpled and pleasingly flustered, pupils blown black and hair in disarray. “I’m getting a crick in my neck,” Neil says, soft like it’s a secret, and smiles crookedly, face bright with affection. Andrew reaches out to touch Neil’s plump bottom lip, can’t help the sharp flare of arousal when Neil meet his eyes and sucks the tip of his thumb into his mouth. He curses under his breath, wanting Neil so much it hurts, and draws him back into another kiss.

“Get in my lap, Neil,” Andrew urges when they come up for air, and Neil nods shakily and scrambles to follow his lead, clumsy with eagerness and lust. They’re both breathing heavily, need scenting the air like honeysuckle, thick and cloyingly sweet. Neil straddles him like he belongs in his lap, and both of them gasp at the contact; they’re both hard, and when Neil leans down to mouth at the sensitive skin of his neck, more teeth and tongue than anything else, Andrew arches into it, all his nerve endings waking up at the same time.

Before Neil, Andrew couldn’t have imagined ever letting someone cage him in like this, trapped and at a disadvantage; with Neil, it feels like coming home. He draws Neil impossibly closer, traces the ridge of his collarbone, slides his hands down to span the smooth planes of his back, mesmerized by the long line of his spine. Neil exhales raggedly and shifts in his lap, restless, seeking friction; their cocks brush together in an excruciating tease, painfully close but not nearly close enough, and Andrew swears he sees stars. He rocks his hips up with a hitching groan, leaning in to capture Neil’s lips in a messy kiss, trying not to choke on the elemental sweetness of his touch.

Time passes, unheeded and unimportant. Neil opens his eyes, looking faintly dazed, eyelashes trembling as he runs patient hands down Andrew’s shoulders, exploring the muscles of his back. Andrew sighs into his touch, failing to suppress his shudder as Neil presses further into his lap, making their erections rub together deliciously. Their gazes meet, then hold; Andrew knows he trusts Neil from his shadowed mind to the very marrow of his bones, and he suddenly can’t hold out a moment longer.

“I want to blow you. Yes or no?” Andrew says, and watches Neil’s breath go shallow and unsteady as he nods his assent. Neil seems unable to grasp the logistics of moving at the moment, so Andrew takes the initiative, manhandling him out of his lap and into a sitting position, then sliding off the couch and onto his knees. He looks up at Neil from his position on the floor, marvelling at his irreverent tenacity and his unflinching trust. He can’t stop himself from dropping a tiny kiss to Neil’s quivering stomach as he tugs his pants down far enough to expose his clothed erection; Neil laughs breathlessly, the sound dissolving into a stuttering moan as Andrew sucks a blossoming bruise into the delicate skin over his abs.

Andrew rucks up the material of Neil’s Rebels jersey to uncover the sharp cut of muscle above his hips, mouth going dry at the sight. He runs his palms over the newly exposed skin, tracing the puckered scar tissue there with thoughtful fingers, listening to the way Neil gasps and gasps for him. Leaning in close, Andrew kisses a slow, lazy path across Neil’s scar-roughened skin, from the curve of his ribcage to the pale jut of his hip, savouring the muscles clenching under his lips. He palms Neil’s bulging cock through his underwear before finally hooking his fingers into the waistband and tugging them down, and Neil closes his eyes tight and fights to keep himself still.

Neil’s cock is a thing of crude beauty, flushed and straining up toward his stomach, already weeping precome. When Andrew presses a kiss to the tip, Neil’s breath hitches desperately; when he takes him in his mouth, his voice cracks right down the middle, half a sob and half something else.

Andrew swallows around Neil’s cock, grazes his teeth against the velvety head, light and teasing; Neil jerks against his tongue, delightfully responsive, then contains the movement in the same breath. He’s halfway gone already, chest rising and falling with every heaving breath; he makes a pretty picture like this, with his tousled hair and the easy flush disappearing under the neckline of his jersey, eyes blazing a fiery path across Andrew’s tingling skin.

Wrapping a hand around the base of Neil’s cock, Andrew flattens his tongue against the sensitive spot on the underside and tenses his throat, pulling sounds from Neil that send electricity humming through his bones. He reaches down to palm at himself through his track pants, relieving the building pressure for a heartstopping moment, blood pounding in his ears; he brings his hand back up to trace the strong lines of Neil’s thigh muscles, all coiled strength, and lets himself breathe, and be.

Neil, true to form, is keeping his hands to himself, though he is clearly growing anxious for something to hold onto. Andrew grabs his hand and puts it in his hair, a wordless request that Neil is good at obeying; his hand comes up to briefly cup the side of his face before sliding into his hair. Andrew closes his eyes as Neil tightens his grip, the slight pressure on his scalp raising goosebumps all along the back of his neck. Neil’s other hand finds Andrew’s and holds on, fingers drawing circles on the time-smoothed inside of his ravaged wrist.

When Neil gets close, Andrew hollows his cheeks and takes him even deeper, appreciating the heavy weight of Neil’s cock against his tongue; in this position, his own aching need is easy to put aside, a steady background hum. Neil is moving his hips in restless little thrusts, cursing under his breath as he struggles for control; Andrew pushes him further in rebellious response, flicks his tongue and swallows him down, and Neil groans long and loud, bold and unashamed. He squeezes Andrew’s hand in warning, swallowing compulsively when Andrew looks up to meet his heated gaze.

For one breathless moment, the tension stretches out; then Andrew squeezes back and moans around him, and Neil inhales sharply and comes, pulsing hot down his throat. Andrew works him through it before pulling off, panting and so alive his whole body sings with it.

“ _Fuck_ , Andrew,” Neil gasps, sounding wrecked, eyes wide and heartbreakingly blue, and then, “Tell me what you want,” all heat and sincerity, question and offer at once. Supporting himself on Neil’s knee, Andrew leans up to kiss him again, lets it shift and spin out, feels it turn filthy when Neil tastes himself on his tongue.

“I want your mouth,” Andrew breaks away to say, even to his own ears sounding rough and barely restrained, and watches Neil’s pupils dilate as he absorbs his words. Neil nods fervently and uses their tangled hands to haul him back to his feet, smiles when his knees crack getting up, small and real and utterly known; Andrew is shakier than he wants to be, jittery with drawn-out arousal, but warmth still spreads through him at the sight of his smile. Andrew lets his eyes travel the lovely, jagged lines of Neil’s scarred face, touches trembling fingers to the sunburst of freckles across his cheekbones, wants to bite down on the hollow of his throat; he lets Neil take care of him instead.

They end up with their positions reversed, Andrew sitting on the couch and Neil crouching between his knees. Neil draws him down into a hungry kiss, groaning as he licks into his mouth with something close to desperation, closer to greed; he uses one hand to nimbly undo Andrew’s pants, brushing against his aching cock in the barest suggestion of a tease. Andrew groans and lets his legs fall open, already lost to the anticipation of Neil’s touch.

Neil leans in to mouth at him through his underwear, tantalizing, hot breath dampening the fabric; Andrew clutches at him, strokes from his temple to his rebellious jaw, runs his hands across the slope of his wiry shoulders, cradles his face in reverent hands. His orgasm is building hot and liquid at the base of his spine, right alongside his throbbing pulse; sensing this, Neil leans back to wrap a tight hand around his cock, meeting his eyes as he strokes slowly from root to leaking tip. He keeps his touch firm and grounding, carefully manoeuvring the minefield still lurking in the neglected corners of Andrew’s mind, the pitiless understanding in his capable hands evidence of a wayward life.

“Neil,” Andrew says, more plea than warning, more air than voice, and Neil understands without words. He smiles up at Andrew from his position on the floor, still keeping a loose hold on his cock, and Andrew feels something vulnerable and searching inside of him shift into place. Neil dips down to press a kiss to the tender skin of his lower stomach, another to the crease of his thigh, knuckles lightly grazing his balls as he nuzzles the coarse blond hair at the base of his cock, deliberate and unbearably patient; Andrew sighs and shivers with the mindless pleasure of his welcomed touch.

Neil moves close enough for his breath to feather maddeningly across the hot length of Andrew’s cock, then pauses a hair’s breadth away, mouth falling open in clear anticipation; he waits until Andrew grabs his hand again before finally closing the distance.

Neil wraps his lips around the tip of his cock, sinking down hot and wet and agonizing, and Andrew has to fight to stifle his reflexive urge to buck up into Neil’s generous mouth. Bobbing his head, Neil moans and takes him even deeper, doesn’t let up until Andrew’s cock bumps the back of his throat.

For a wild moment, Andrew forgets how to breathe, so close to the edge he can already taste the shuddering sweetness of the fall; Neil pulls back a little in response, flicking his clever tongue against his overheated length and humming around him, eager and sure. Mesmerized, Andrew traces Neil’s full bottom lip with longing fingers; Neil smiles as he swallows, fierce and true, not a demand but an offer to catch him when he decides to let go, and Andrew feels completely laid bare with the intimacy of it all.

He’s been close for so long it almost hurts to keep going, and when Neil locks his hazy gaze with his and gives a helpless little moan, Andrew knows he’s done. He stills on the edge, twitching and precarious, fighting the faint discomfort that always comes with letting go; Neil hums encouragement around his cock, and Andrew lets himself fall.

He presses in as he comes, involuntary, muscles cording with tension before releasing in a dizzying rush; Neil makes a low noise in the back of his throat, swallows harshly, takes it all in. It would be easy to be overwhelmed by the loss of control, a drowning man adrift in a roiling sea, but Neil holds him together with steady hands and a steadier heart, and Andrew trusts him to take them only as far as he is willing to go. Trusting Neil feels like a burst of vibrant colour in a sea of featureless grey; Andrew memorizes it like he’s done a hundred times before, feeling cracked open and raw, no defences left at all.

He seems to be coming for a long time, spilling himself down Neil’s eager throat, but eventually, the tide recedes. Andrew draws back, catching his breath, stroking gentle fingertips across the junction where Neil’s shoulder meets his neck. Still on his knees on the living room floor, Neil licks his lips and grins, gulping in air, rosy and beautiful with the scars stitched across his blushing skin, and Andrew’s pounding heart clenches with perfect understanding.

Neil gets back up, plopping down on the couch next to him without an ounce of grace, loose-limbed and sated; Andrew draws him into a lingering kiss, more sharing breath than anything else.

They come down together, sweat cooling on their skin, all urgency lost; when they break apart, they stay close enough to touch. Andrew brings their linked hands up to Neil’s ruinous mouth, watches Neil press a fluttering kiss to the pad of his thumb; he can’t help the weak stab of heat lancing through him at the sight, overlaid with affection and quietude and bone-deep trust. Neil gazes back at him, blinking slow and sweet, his smile caught in the lines etching out from his remarkable eyes.

“It’s your turn to feed the cats,” Neil says, and laughs, leaning warm and heavy into his side, already halfway to drifting off; Andrew rolls his eyes but wraps an arm around him all the same, kisses the top of his head, knows Neil draws comfort from being touched and wants to give him everything.

The dull roar of Boston evening traffic filters in through the windows, strangely soothing; the cats sleep nearby, trusting and safe. Andrew rubs his cheek against Neil’s unruly hair, carefully files away the sound of his snuffling breaths, lets himself feel the terrifying responsibility of the life they’ve built, and chooses it, again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!


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